


the appetite comes with eating

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [39]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a traumatic incident, Karkat tries to keep his life together. </p>
<p>Takes place a week after "things fall apart".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sergei

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the delay. Things got kind of nuts on my end but we're back just in time for the holiday season. :D

**== >Karkat: Go to your new job**

 

It doesn’t look like a bar on the outside. The windows are covered with advertisements in blocky Trussian script and painted on the door is the Trussian coat of arms. You really hope they speak English. You open the door and the smell hits you: vodka, cabbage, and vinegar. It’s a mixed crowd; trolls and humans sitting at tables, speaking mostly Trussian.

 

The man that greets you is the second tallest mutantblood you have ever met. He’s got muscles and tattoos. He laughs. “So! This is little cucumber Strider tosses my way? Not even good enough for pickling! Oh I _kid_ though! Don’t look scared! What is your name, boy?”

His voice is booming, thick with a Trussian accent. You offer a smile, and try not to sound too nervous. “Karkat…”

 _“Karkat_ says the tiny leaf! Let’s hear you shout it, boy!” he laughs.

“Karkat!”

“Good, good!” He puts the thickness of his arm around you, like you’re old pals and not an easily-intimidated new employee who fled the worst job in troll history. “Sergei Vantas!”

“Vantas?” You’re not related to this guy are you? He’s so huge, hairy, and loud. Oh gods. Are you going to end up smelling like cabbage too?

“Yes, Vantas! Very good name. _Very common_ in Trussia.”

Sergei plops you in a wood chair and sits across from you. You feel more small and awkward by the minute. You look at Sergei and realize something: the muscles, the loud boisterous nature. This is Jake. The troll version of Jake. Why does the world need multiple Jakes? Just one is awkward enough.

You stammer out, “…please don’t tell me you like guns.”

“What? Nyet. _No_.” He scowls, “Not my favorite thing in the world. Only tool like a hammer.”

“No. Uh. It was a dumb question.” You mutter. You feel so small compared to him. Someone like Sergei wouldn’t have been stupid and got in the mess you were in. You were so fucking stupid and you had to get bailed out by friends.

Sergei frowns more. “Capricorn, huh?”

You look up. “Uh…w-what?”

“Capricorn. Purpleblood assholes who think they make mutantbloods their buckets?”

You stare at him and then nod slowly. “…it was stupid…”

“Past is for remembering. Not regretting.” Sergei slams his fist on the table. You jump. “ _Capricorns!_ Think they turn mutants into buckets? Think mutants weak and just toys and pets and egg-makers?”

The mutantblood stands and walks to the bar. Above the bar is a sickle with a red blade. Sergei pulls it off the wall and walks over to you, hefting the sickle. “I come to Canz lonely troll. Not much older than you. Them Capricorn come for me. Say they feed me and they clothe me but they want one thing from me.” He shakes the sickle, “They try to penetrate me? _I penetrate them first!_ I made sure they _never_ penetrate again! Little clowns too afraid to admit what a mutie did to them. _Ha!_ ”

You smile as Sergei puts the sickle back. “You did that? All on your own.”

“Da. When you are kit in Trussia, you are not allowed to sit on glute all day watching TV. You go to streets. Learn to play. Learn to fight. Streets are best teacher if you ask me but I know nothing different.” He laughs again.

“…can you teach me self defense? I don’t want… _that_ …to happen again.”

“Of course!” Sergei folds his arms, “No better teacher than _revenge_!”

He takes you to the bar, fully stocked with alcohol. You get drilled in how to take orders, what different labels mean, and key words in Trussian. What different labels mean. He takes you to the kitchen which is densely packed with cooks at work. Its only warmbloods that work here.

“We have very busy dinner hour.” Sergei smiles, “Everyone in all of Little Trussia and Squalor come here. Eat my borscht. Drink my vodka. Just like home!”

“Why did you leave Trussia?” you ask.

Sergei sighs. “Trussia is motherland but mother give you food and push you out door if you wish to be good adult. I wanted to see world. All Trussians do! Nomads.” He thumps his chest proudly. “It shall always be in blood.”

“So everyone here is Trussian?”

“Exact opposite!” Sergei laughs, “I take in all kinds. Take in everyone who come here asking. Some I find on my doorstep begging. There are no beggars in Trussian. We help anyone we can, make them work for what they want. You see that man there?” He points to an older yellowblood overlooking two younger trolls as they chop turnips and rutabagas. “That man I found in my back alley one night, rooting through my garbage, strung out on mind honey. I give him work and soon he is off the street. Soon he is walking around, carrying himself up high.”

The mind honey habit explains the long sleeves; the dark veins on his arms would stand out too much.

Sergei pushes you to the head chef, who goes by Dom. He’s a tall wiry yellowblood with scarred sunken in eyes and hollow cheeks. You feel he doesn’t have to wait for milk to sour for the cold Trussian soups; just a glare does the job. Sergei leaves the kitchen while you get drilled again, this time in the preparation of Trussian food.

“You call that _diced celery_? My grandmother could chop better with a _brick_.” Dom’s voice is raspy. Just hearing it makes you thirsty. There’s no exclamation, just cold raspy statements.

Your first test is making okroshka while everyone else is boiling eggs and cabbage, stirring cream, pounding dough, checking the mushroom cellar, or smoking fish. You get a kink in your back being bent over the counter, dicing, julienning, mincing, and mashing. All the while, Dom is behind you barking orders: _Faster. Careful. Watch out for fingers. Put a headband on if you’re sweating, boy._ He barks orders at the others as well: _Take that pelmeni off the stove. Stir that tripe. Turn the shashlyk. Take those pirozhki out the oven._

Its demanding but still better than your old job. You’re earning your pay with hard work, not with your body. When the okroshka is finished, Dom samples it with a spoon. “Needs improvement…” He grabs one of the chefs, “Take this to the cellar.” Dom points to you. “Make it again.”

You do make it again and this time it’s only half-good. You get a break and eat it with the other workers in the back room. At least you get free food with your break: okroshka with sourdough bread and pirozhki stuffed with rice, boiled eggs, and dill. The only drinks are tea and vodka.

This time you’re more determined to know your co-workers. “So, does anyone speak English?” you ask.

“Most of us do.” answers a mutantblood, who looks to be around Kankri’s age who has more scars than Gamzee does. “What is it?”

“I was just wondering…names and things.” you say. “At my old job no one spoke English or really talked.”

“Laclan.” He says, “You were in one of those shell jobs, yes?”

“A shell job?”

Laclan nods. “A job where the purpose of the job is not to complete the task described but to round up certain trolls for the purpose of sexual slavery. You aren’t the only one who’s had the experience.” He’s well-spoken for someone working here. When you comment on it the mutantblood nods, “I attended University of Caputa several years ago, partially on a grant from NEBio.”

You’re not sure you believe him. “Really? In what?”

“I was a Computer Engineering major with a minor in Troll Sociology,” Laclan says, “but in order to support my education, I worked for NEBio on the machines that produced condoms. While I was there, I uncovered some unsavory facts about NEBio that made it necessary that I disappear.”

Vriska had said NEBio was a sleazy company. You’re tempted to ask why Laclan had to disappear but you doubt this is the time or the place. “So you came here?”

“Not right away. I ran to Aniline End first cause I knew the corpmen wouldn’t go looking for me there. I lived with a bunch of ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ there.” Laclan rolls his eyes at that last part. “When I was running from said ‘uncle’, Sergei found me.”

After your break, you’re at the bar mixing drinks with a yellowblood, who says his name is Mievil. You can detect French in his words.  

“Most of what you’re serving is going to be vodka.” Mievil says, “We don’t buy flavored vodka so you’re going to be mixing in the flavors on your own when they request it. In fact, looks like we’re out. I’ll bring some out from the store room. You sit tight and try to remember what I told you about what you do and do _not_ mix.”

He leaves you at the bar. More people are coming into the bar, talking in Trussian and ordering meals off of paper menus. You study the bottles lining the wall. Living with Kankri has made you a near-expert in your alcohols. The labels are Trussian and broken English but you can tell what liquor is what from color and smell. Its mostly vodka, whiskey, rum and gin. There’s also different types of vodka: molasses, wheat, potato, corn…the list goes on. There’s no highball or martini glasses here either; just tumblers and champagne. 

You hear a scratching noise and its coming from below you. You squat down and notice a line of floor grates near the bar. The floor is sloped towards it. Scratches echo out from the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Mievil asks, returning with an armful of bottles.

You stand, “Do you hear a…noise?”

“The scratching?” Mievil shrugs, putting the bottles on the bar counter. “Probably the rats in the cellar. I’ll tell Chiina about it and he’ll set out some traps. Now come on. I’m gonna show you some mixing.”

“What’s that grate even for? Does it go to the cellar?”

“Its in case something spills so the excess liquid drains away quickly.”

“Does it go directly to the cellar?”

“Nah. This building used to be one of them tenements before it got closed for health-code violations. Place is riddled with pipes. You’re probably just hearing noises echo from someplace else. Now starting mixing.”

Your fingers hurt at the end of the day but you’re not going complain. Its just a normal job this time. You’re too skittish to take the bus still so Dirk picks you up. Once back home, you flop onto the bed. Dave is lying down in just his boxers and typing on his husktop.

When you flop onto the bed, he tears his attention from the husktop and moves closer to you. “How was your non-shitty job?”

“All jobs are sort of shitty. Do I smell like cabbage?”

“Sort of.”

“Great. Where’s Harley?”

“Still at work. Mirth Gras traffic.”

“Go figure. I noticed we got a lot more Nanwalkie tourists. Probably because Nanwalkie is even shittier than New Jack.”

 We have a lot more people from Nanwalkie this time around. Probably because Nanwalkie is so incredibly shitty.” You sit up and look at his husktop, the screen white and full of text. “What’re you writing?”

You see the blood go to his face. “Uh. Nothing. Not much.”

You squint, then snicker. “‘Why The Skeptic Should Be Right: The Presentation of Exorcism in Film’? Being more of a film geek than usual?”

“Shut up…” Dave grumbles.

“Let me guess: you’re a film blogger?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I bet you have a trollumblr.”

“No.” He’s back to typing again.

“A trollumblr blog filled with reblogs about the pathos of film and how The Big Lebowski is a masterpiece.”

“I don’t reblog well-known facts.” A second later he grumbles, “Shut up…”

You smirk and nudge him with your foot. “Are you planning on directing some terribly ironic movies?”

“I have…some ideas.” He admits, sounding embarrassed.

“Have you written anything?” Silence from Strider. You laugh, “You _have_! What’s it about?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason you don’t show me your porn novels.”

“I don’t write porn! I write alternate future novels of espionage, intrigue, romance, and occasionally there’s sex but that’s it! I’ve gone seven whole parts without describing a sex scene. Its an ‘R’ rating at best now.” You say the last part proudly.

“If someone was going to grow up to write horror or porn, it’d be you. Remember that story you wrote in middle school?”

You frown. “Not exactly.”

“…seriously?” 

“Middle school was like years ago.”

“It was only five years ago.”

“I still don’t remember.”

Dave sighs, “Alright, seventh grade English. We had that boring end of the year assignment where everyone had to write a short story. And the teacher freaked out about your story and wanted you to see the counselor? You showed Terezi the rough draft and she showed me.”

You scour your memory and it hits you. “The teacher thought I was disturbed because I wrote about trolls and humans pulling together after a huge…what was it? Earthquake? Mudslide? It was something that killed a lot of people and because I wrote about there being a lot of dead bodies, she said I had violent thoughts. My grandfather yelled at her, so she dropped it but I could tell she thought I was nuts. She avoided me for the rest of the year.”

“Shit. That reminds me.” Dave climbs off the bed and grabs his pants. “I have to go to Walmart before the rush.”

“What for?”

“Leder’s getting a hurricane visit. It won’t hit us but we’re going to get heavy rain all week. Have to get a generator too in case power gets knocked out. City hasn’t declared a mandatory evac so we’re gonna wait things out.”

Dave still looks concerned. “You going to be okay by yourself?”

You haven’t wanted to go to stores by yourself or even walk in the street, which is a pain when you don’t own a car. You smile, “I’m fine, Dave. I’ll just hang around.”

He doesn’t look happy leaving you at home but Dirk is here and Jade will be soon enough. When he leaves, you sit in the living room and absorb yet another Psych marathon. Above you, you hear footsteps. You’re still not used to having someone over you.

Dirk enters the room. “I see you're still up. Where's Dave?"

You smile, “Dave just went out to get sandbags and storm supplies from Walmart.”

“I know. There’s been a flash flood and storm warnings all week.” Dirk sits next to you. “How was work?”

“Kind of weird.” You admit, “No offense but I’ve never really been in a completely Trussian environment. I know Grandpa hung out with them but I never talked to them. And I didn’t know you were Trussian either…are you Trussian?” You don’t think Strider is a Trussian surname, unless ‘Strider’ isn’t Dirk’s real surname.

“It doesn’t matter.” which you guess is Dirk-talk for ‘let’s not get into that’.“Are you alright?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You haven’t had a sound sleep in over a week. You were up at three again.”

“I slept.” You insist, leaving out that you slept for a half hour at best and then immediately woke up from vivid nightmares. Its been impossible to sleep for the usual seven hours but that’s no big deal. Your ancestors didn’t have seven hour sleep cycles. Your grandfather went weeks without sleep. You’re fine and now you have more free time so you’re better off anyways.

“Have you talked to Kankri since the incident?”

You haven’t. “I’m fine. I’m just not sleepy.” You frown, “You know a lot about Kankri too.”

“I know a lot about certain subjects.” replies Dirk, evasive as usual.

You sit there in silence before you ask a question that’s been nagging at you, “Dirk…if you knew I was in the danger, why didn’t you warn me?”

“We both know you wouldn’t have listened to me. If you had been made aware of the danger you were in, you would have tried to run at the worst time. Then they would have killed you, or shipped you off immediately. The only guarantee that you’d be captured but still in the city is if you’d been ‘shanghaied’. I also wagered that because of you being Kankri’s son, Capone would want to keep you in the personal ‘harem’.”

“Where would they have sent me?”

Dirk doesn’t have to think long. “Brazilitim or Germanium. They have a very profitable sex trade and it’s a lot easier to bribe officials. Mutantbloods are rare and in high demands. If you had been another blood color or human, you’d been sent to Leder or Raffil.”

You don’t know why that’s making your inside feeling so cold and your muscles tighten. Dirk must see the tension in your face because he says, “You shouldn’t dwell on ‘what ifs’. How was work?”

“Fi-fine…” You suddenly don’t feel like talking or doing much of anything. Dirk doesn’t try to get you to talk after that. 


	2. scratching

You’re at work by nine and people are already here in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, boiling potatoes, learning to scale and de-bone monstrous sized fish. Sergei keeps your company while you mix thick dough that will become blini.

“I never knew Trussia had so many types of food.” you admit to Sergei, “I thought it was all boiled potatoes and cabbage.”

Sergei rolls his eyes. “Canzia government likes to think Trussia land of peasants.” He thumps his chest. “Trussians have many plants and many foods! They look at Trussia and only see a nation of poor communist peasants, which we are _not!_ Sufferism is not communism! Communists do not believe in god, only the state. We believe in god. We are not ‘Dirty Reds’.”

“Really?” Your textbooks have always said otherwise on the occasional blurb about Trussia. “What’s Sufferism?”

“Sufferism is the religion of Trussia. Back in days of aristocracy, mutantbloods treated as sex objects because of that slutgod of the Orthodoxian.” Sergei growls, “The slutgod make the highbloods think a mutantblood is only bucket to be used up. Then one day, the Apostle says ‘Enough of this!’ and he speaks before his own congregation in the mutantblood ghettoes of Luscov. He says that the highbloods take our church, make these pagan gods our heroes, and forget the power and lessons the Suffer taught us. He says we fight to have our ways back from claws of greedy highbloods. Mutantbloods just as equal to highbloods! There are no gods. Only the Sufferer and his message of a pure society, where all are equal.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t go over well with the aristocracy.”

“Of course not.” Sergei snorts, “The aristocracy? _Pah._ More like gathering of spoilt kits. They starve families so that they use fields to make fuel. Farmers plant corn and wheat that become biofuels and highbloods undersell them, then haul fuel to Luscov to heat their mansions and palaces through cold Trussian winter. For drops of fuel, entire families starved to death in Trussia. The Apostle said ‘no more’ and the people rose up with him.”

“So what happened?”

Sergei grins. “They eat bullets. King or serf, dead is dead. Now the Apostle helps all and sees that Trussia is fair.”

“Were you a part of the revolution?”

“What? Nyet!” Sergei laughs, “This happen many _many_ years ago! In time of great-great-grandfather. Now _he_ was part of revolution. He shot the emperor’s matesprit in the face himself! He had the great bastard king’s horns mounted on his mantle. Great man he was.”

“He sounds great.” You wonder if Sergei cut off horns himself. He seems like the type.

Dom enters the room and glares at Sergei, “You’re distracting my new employee.”

Sergei holds up his hands, “I only see how Karkat doing. First week of work always tough.”

“Only if you’re a _child_ ,” Dom is leaning over your shoulder, “and I still see _lumps_ in that dough.”

You nod and keep stirring despite the ache in your shoulders and beads of sweat on your forehead. Who knew a kitchen with nine people in it could be so humid? Dom doesn’t let up because of the heat either, always staring at you and criticizing what you make.

You don’t spend your first break relaxing but on the fenced roof of the building. You’re out of breath from going up three flights of stairs.

Sergei shakes his head, “How do you strike fear into _anyone_ if you can barely run?”

“I can only run really fast when I’m scared…” You mutter.

“Don’t you do anything for stamina? Exercise?”

“No. Not really. I used to bike when I was small but that stopped when I got older.”

Sergei rolls his eyes. “With the bus around, go figure.” He clears his throat, “You need to build stamina. You will start biking or walking instead of laying about the house.”

“But I...” You don’t want to walk around the neighborhood by yourself. Even biking seems far too dangerous with Mirth Gras happening. “I…uh…”

Sergei sighs. “Then we’ll do this. Run in place.”

“…now?”

“Yes, _now,_ Karkat!” Sergei growls, “And a push up!”

Your first training session isn’t very long. You’re quickly tired out and Sergei looks annoyed, but promises he’s going to get you into shape. He lets you go on break though. In the break room, you eat lunch with Laclan and Mievil.

“Looks like you’re doing Sergei’s training regimen.” Laclan snickers.

“You’ve gone through it?” you ask.

“We all have.” Mievil says. “One of the first things Sergei teaches you when you work here is how to defend yourself. Sometimes there’s troublesome customers you have to watch out for.”

“Its a bar.” You say with a shrug.

“What are you even doing here?” Laclan asks, “No offense to you but everyone who works here has nowhere else to go. I had to disappear. Mievil’s an ex-prostitute that for the Street Summoners. Dom’s a burnout. We live in the spare rooms since most places won’t rent to people like us, or they’re too out in the open. But a guy picked you up. Is he your matesprit?” 

The idea of Dirk as your matesprit and Dave as your kismesis is just…well _fuck_. That image is too sexy to think about right now. You give a short, nervous laugh to cover the arousal you’re feeling. “No! No. _No_. You have the wrong idea. And person. I don’t have a matesprit. That’s just my kismesis’s older brother that we live with. And he’s married. To another _human_ man.”

“We know he’s married. Its just that being married never stopped anyone.” Mievil says, “He comes here all the time.”

“He does?” That was something you did not know. “Why?”

Mievil shakes his head, “I don’t know. He comes by randomly and he just eats or talks with Sergei or Dom, then leaves without paying. They always talk Trussian, but Dirk has an accent I can’t figure out.”

You don’t speak Trussian so you wouldn’t know the difference between regular Trussian and some area inflection. Though Dirk stopping by the bar randomly explains where he disappears to. “How far back do Sergei and him go?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been working here for eight months.” Laclan says.

“I’ve been here for a year.” says Mievil, “The only person who’s been here for a long time is Dom but he’s not social. He doesn’t come to the break room.”

“I’ve never seen him _take_ a break. Ever.” says another kitchen worker.

“Never seen him sleep either.” adds another.

“He must be a firefly.” mutters Mievil.

“What’s a ‘firefly’?”

“Someone who was fighting in the Jangles and got sprayed by defoliant.” Laclan says, “South Bojangles is a heavily forested area and it was too easy to trip up troops so they sprayed defoliant everywhere. They had the trolls on the ground cause the higher-ups figured trolls could tolerate it better than humans. So they sprayed it but some of the soldiers had a _really_ bad reaction to it. They started going nuts. They stopped sleeping, seeing things that weren’t there, and then they’d stop talking and just try to kill everything. Couldn’t tell friend from foe.”   

“My uncle’s an ex-vet and he’s _nowhere_ as competent as Dom.” says another, “I think he’s just an ex-con who got on the bad side of some mobster.”

“He barely blinks! Only ex-vets do that.”

“It would explain the scars around his eyes.” You question how well Dom can even see you.

The door opens. Dom sourly tells you all to put your gossiping energy into your work. You all pour out of the break room and go back to work. Gossiping might be childish but it makes you feel more at ease. You’re not isolated by language. They’re people just like you trying to get by.

You’re working at the front of the bar, preparing your first drink for your first customer: a warmblood in a suit and tie. You’re offering him the variety of vodka you have on the menu when you hear that noise again. That scratching noise. You try to ignore it but its loud. It isn’t just you because Sergei turns up the volume on the TV.

When you get back home you talk to Jade. You both made a pact to talk more often since you’re sharing a space. Dave hasn’t come yet so it must be traffic or tourists flooding Starboons.

“Do you think rats could sound that loud?” you ask.

“What kind of scratching are we talking about?” she asks.

“Sort of like nails on rusty pipe? Maybe.”

“It could be a rat. Have you told your boss?”

“Yeah. Everyone says its rats still.”

“Weird.” Jade grins, “Maybe it’s the old owner and he never left? Or maybe a huge secret.”

You really hope not. You’ve had your fill of jobs with background weirdness. “I hope the fuck not.”

“Just remember your horror movie rules,” says Jade, “Whenever you hear cellar spookiness, go with a flashlight, a weapon, and a meat shield.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” 


	3. flight of the black swan

The job is fine so far but you can’t ignore the noise from the grate. The next day you hear a faint growling. The day after, its a gurgling like whatever is down there is grumbling through water. On Friday, its high pitched whining like a needy dog. 

“Okay, the rats in the cellar are getting really hungry.” You say to Sergei that Friday morning. Your tone is joking to hide your nervous fear about what might be down there.

Sergei looks at you from over the top of his huskpad and sighs, putting it down on the table. “I guess we should see how the rat traps are doing. Come.”

You follow Sergei to the locked cellar door, flashlights in your hands. He unlocks it and the smell of must and vinegar hits your nose. Sergei doesn’t flinch. He walks down the creaking stairs nonchalantly. You stay close to him, clinging to the railing. The bottom of the cellar is dirty and wet, muddy-looking in certain areas. There are boxes and pots are stacked neatly along shelves. There are dark containers of wine and earthenware pots of fermenting food.

Sergei shines his light on a leaky pipe. “Have to fix that.”

You see something scuttle out of the corner of your eye and turn around. “What was that?”

There’s the sound of pots falling over. You shine your flashlight in the corner and something’s twitching and chirping. Sergei walks over and kicks a pot aside. Hiding inside of the pot is a small crab lusus, legs and claws wiggling. It chirps loudly, trying to get right side up again.

Your heart stops pounding when you look at the creature. “Just a lusus?”

“It must have crawled in through a hole somewhere. Have to get that patched up.” Sergei rolls his eyes and picks up the pot. “We’ll go upstairs and get a hammer.”

“A hammer? What for?”

Sergei stares at you. “What do you think? Lusus are worse than a hundred rats.”

“What? You can’t kill it!” You reach for the pot.

Sergei keeps the pot away from you. “Its not like I want to kill it, but what can I do? Shelters will kill it. I have enough worries without animals running around and eating supplies.”

“You can’t kill it. Its not its fault. Its just hungry.” You can’t stop looking at the lusus. Its eyes are so big. It reminds you of Sonny, who you always wanted to take care of. “It looks like it was abandoned too. New Jack has a lot of abandoned animals and they always go to kill shelters and—”

Sergei groans. “If I give you this obnoxious little thing, will you stop whining?”

“I’m not whining. I just don’t want to see it hurt. Haven’t you ever had a pet?”

Sergei laughs, “Never a concern of mine. Come.”

You go back upstairs and Sergei locks the cellar. He tells Dom about their being a hole downstairs since the lusus got in. Dom lets you fill a bucket with warm water so the lusus can swim around. You watch him in the bucket while sitting at a table in the front of the bar. The little crab’s grimy after running around in the cellar. It likes the water though and after a minute you can see the hard white carapace.

Mievil looks at the bucket. “What was a crab lusus doing in our cellar?”

The lusus peeks at you from the bucket edge before diving back down into the water. “Damned if I know but he’s cute, don’t you think?” you say.

“It must be tame because its not running around or biting the hell out of everyone.” Laclan says, “Once a bunch of Tinkerbulls broke into a place I was staying and bit the hell out of people.”

“It’s a hermit crab too.” You say.

“How do you know that?” Mievil asks.

“Its back end is soft and curved. Only hermit crabs have that. That’s why they protect their underside with shells.” You smile, “My grandfather used to take me to the beach a lot. He taught me everything he knew about the sea life.”

Sergei comes down the stairs. “Karkat. If you done playing with your pet, you have work to do. You have yet to learn to do one push up without wobbling like a nesting doll!”  

You frown, looking down at the hermit crab lusus. “Will it be okay? You sure Dom’s not gonna boil it and serve it as king crab.”

“As if I could,” Dom says, walking into the room, “lusus meat is inedible no matter what you do and can be toxic as well. Now, unless you want to turn this bar into a pet store: _all of you get back to work._ Your little mascot can stay pending it doesn’t mess with anything.”

The hermitcrab lusus dips back under the water again, hiding. You smile and each in the bucket to pat it on the head. You’re definitely going to call him Sonny Junior. He might not be as big or fierce as Sonny Jr. but he’s going to be just as good. You leave Sonny Jr. in his bucket in the break room and head up to the rooftop.

You jog and exercise with Sergei, but the other troll seems distracted. Is he really irritated by the lusus? No, he was annoyed before about your questions about Trussia. Did you hit a sore spot for him? While you’re trying to do a push up, Sergei is leaning against the wire fencing looping around the rooftop.

“So…” you say in-between grunts as you try to do sit ups, “…what did you do back in Trussia?”

There’s silence from Sergei. He’s staring off into the distance. “Guess.” He says.

“Um…chef?” You venture.

“Dancer.” Sergei shuts his eyes, “Once, I was greatest dancer in all of Luscov.”

“What kind of dance?”

“Classical Trussian ballet.”

You sit up. “What? You’re shitting me.” Sergei glares at you and you blush, “No offense but you don’t seem like the type. I mean, all the ballet dancers I’ve seen are either really short trolls or girls.”

Sergei takes a deep breath. While his eyes are shut, he slides off his shoes. He inhales again and then he moves and it is fluid. His limbs remind you of rubber as he turns, moves with grace and supernatural speed. His legs turn out and he’s able to stand on his toes with the focus and strength you can’t imagine. You twirls around you and in that moment you understand why he’s so lean and muscular. You have to be in shape to master such movement. He stops in back of you, arms raised, chest heaving, and sweat running down his face.

“It was said my dance breathed life into even the old men in the audience of those who witnesses my performances.” Sergei says.

“That’s amazing!” You stop attempting to do a sit up. “How come you’re not world famous?”

Sergei’s eyes are still shut. He lows her hands slowly. “One day, I join a big company and we go abroad into Brazilitim for performance. In Brazilitim, we perform for many rich people but there is one in the audience who comes every night. A man. A rich man who descended from highblood aristocrats who fled Trussia during revolution. This rich man is obsessed with me and wants me for himself. And in Brazilitim, he can have me. So he pays to have me snatched in night like slave.”

You remember being snatched by those purplebloods and your throat goes dry. Sergei’s eyes are still shut so he doesn’t notice your quavering. 

“I disappear and troupe does not know where I am. Police are very easy to bribe in Brazilitim. So I am taken to his home in country side and here, he keeps me like dog behind locked doors. And so he keeps me. Uses my body. Thinks he has broken me. Thinks I am meek.”

Sergei’s eyes open and they’re red and make his rage more obvious.

“But I was not. Trussians have patience of glaciers, so I wait. I wait for laziness and one day, he is not locking door. So I leave the room and I go to his kitchen and grab knives. And all Trussians are raised soldiers, so I do as all soldiers must. I kill his bodyguards and I kill his servants. And then I tie up his children and his matesprit and I tie him up. And I dance for him one last time. And with every step I take, I slit the throats of his children and matesprit one by one.”   

Sergei’s smile is as thin as a blade. “And I keep him alive and unlike me, he breaks right away. I take him to Trussian embassy and then the secret police take him. And I never see him again. But he is not dead.” The older mutantblood kneels down, “For him to die would be too merciful.”

You don’t know what to think. You mutter, “…why are you telling me this?”

“You know what its like to be abused by their hemotype,” Sergei says, “Don’t tell me you _haven’t_ thought about revenge.”

You don’t know what to say. Of course you’ve thought of revenge, but you’ve yet to enact it. You even know what Capone’s son looks like, but could you kill him? Crush his throat? Bash his face into the ground? The imagery turns your stomach. You have the Grand Highblood’s rage in you, waiting to be let out. If you killed someone, would you be able to stop? What if you fly into a blind rage and just murder anything in your field of vision?

You shake your head. “I…I don’t know.”

You can’t read Sergei’s expression then. Disappointment? Understanding? He stands and walks to the stairs. He says, “Ah well. Revenge is the food of the savage heart.”

You don’t know what to say. You just follow Sergei downstairs. 

* * *

 

At Strider’s trailer, you sit on the back porch with Terezi and watch the rain fall. There’s a mild tropical storm coming your way, but you’re not worried. Leder and the woody coastline typically rebuff storms and the levees and canals have always held. You’re drinking non-alcoholic storm punch, hearing far-off rumbles of thunder.

Terezi is watching Sonny Jr. splashing in the bucket. “You always wanted a lusus; I just never thought you’d pick a small one.”

“Its not his fault he’s shrimpy. I bet his owners didn’t feed him.” You insist, giving Sonny Jr. another sardine for a tin can. The lusus happily snatches it and chitters at you. “Aww. See that? He likes me.”

“More like he likes getting food, but what animal doesn’t?” You sips her punch, “What about Sergei’s story?”

“What about it? Its fucked up but not something uncommon.”   

“Do you think its true?”

“It sounds true enough. Why? You don’t think its true?”

Terezi pauses and then says, “I think parts of it might be true but other parts of it don’t make sense. For one thing, he was abducted right and just kept in that room the whole time? Why did he know where the kitchen, bodyguards, and servants were? Typically most servants in a large household don’t stay in the same area, but Sergei says he killed them all. Secondly, he was able to tie up everyone and then kill them? Where’d he get the rope from? Thirdly, how did he get all the way to a Trussian embassy when he says that the highblood lived in the countryside? Most embassies are in city capitals, so he’d have to get all the way there while dodging the corrupt police. I just think he left some things out.”

“I never thought of that.” You sigh. “Terezi…do you think I should want to take revenge against Capone after what he did to me? I know most trolls believe in revenge but its just…” You look down, “…I don’t think I could kill someone’s kid in front of them. Maybe its because I’m going to be a father myself but it just doesn’t feel right. I even know what Capone’s kid looks like but he seemed more miserable than me. And lonely. I don’t want to hurt that kid…I felt bad for him. His Dad’s a fucking asshole and a creep.”

“Revenge doesn’t always make things better, Karkat.” Terezi says.

“I just think if it was my grandfather, he would have murdered Capone in cold blood and not thought otherwise.”

“You can’t compare yourself to your grandfather or any of the old generation, either.” Terezi sighs, “They’re a different generation and a different culture. For instance, if I was raised on Alternia, I’d be some weird recluse playing hangman with stuffed animals.”

You smirk, “And eating chalk. Don’t forget that.”

“I didn’t eat _that_ much chalk.”

“Your teeth were stained red all throughout preschool, kindergarten, and up to third grade. And our teacher had no idea why the chalk kept disappearing no matter how much she ordered. Then from the other classes too…they never caught the chalk thief either.” You snicker, “How _odd_ that I found a stash of chalk in your bedroom that one time...”

“Enough with the speculation on my kithood chalk habits.” Terezi huffs, “Its been your first week of work and you haven’t told me how its going. Do you like your job?”

“Of course I like my job. The guys there are cool and its awesome meeting trolls from other countries and cultures. They’re not all Trussian either. I met a troll from Denzia. Sergei’s cool too. Who ever heard of a troll like him doing ballet?”

“You sounded afraid of him…but I think you’re more impressed.” Terezi says.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “No.”

“I smell embarrassment better than you smell frying bacon.”

“ _No_.” you say, “No way. Not happening. He’s my _boss_ and _way_ older than me.” Or you’re assuming he’s older than you at his size and experience.

“He also sounds like an alpha troll and you’re getting flustered thinking about him.”

“Getting flustered doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it.” Your bulge’s been tucked inside of you since your abduction but you feel it stir. It doesn’t unsheathe but the thought of Sergei’s muscles and smile give it some renewed energy. “I have two kids on the way. Sex is the _last_ thing I have on the brain.”

Thunder booms and the sky lights up for a brief second; the lightning is far off but not for long. “Terezi, you should head home before Kankri freaks out.”

“Oh, he knows I’m here and I’m safe with Dirk and Jake around.”

“You’re safe with me too! Look!” You flex your arm.

Terezi stares at you. “Karkat, I might be able to smell and taste things but I still can’t _see_ what you’re doing right now.”

“Oh yeah...” You unflex your arm. “I’ve been working out with Sergei. He’s teaching me self-defense. I’m already getting muscles.”

“That you have to use a magnifying glass to see.” Dave snorts.

You turn around and look at Dave, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see you flex your quote unquote ‘muscles’.” Dave snickers. He looks at the lusus in the bucket, “…what is that?”

“…Sonny Junior.” You admit.

“Oh god, are you picking up random animals too? Its bad enough Jade didn’t want me to kill that Tinkerbulls that got into our garbage. Now you have…this thing.”

“Its cute, Dave! It’s a hermit crab lusus!” You pick up Sonny Junior’s bucket. Sonny Junior squints at Dave, and then hides under the water. “See? He’s shy. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Dave looks at the bucket and sighs, “As long as he doesn’t try to sleep on the bed too. Bec’s now trying to get on and its slightly crowded.”

“He’s a lusus. He’ll stay outside most of the time.” The wind is starting to pick up and the tree branches are swayed. You stand, “Let’s go inside. And where’s Dirk at?”

Dave shrugs. “He stepped out a while ago. No clue where he’s at.”


	4. black swan and saffron finch

**== >Karkat: Be the Trussian mutantblood**

When you see the human enter the bar, you stand and laugh. “ _Strider_! My good friend! I was hoping you would stop by!”

As soon as the boys hear _Strider,_ they scurry about; closing window shutters, locking the door, and guarding the entrances and exits. Strider and you sit in the corner while the others are running around. Two kitchen boys bring a bottle of vintage vodka and two plates pirozhki stuffed with sautéed mushroom and onion and pork kholodets. They pour you both vodka and step away, giving you privacy.

You bite into your pirozhki. “Not like home, but very close.” You say in country hick Trussian, “I think my boys are perfecting are close to perfecting the recipe though.”

Dirk eats his pirozhki with a knife and fork because you can take the asshole out of Luscov but you can’t take the Luscovite out of the asshole. “Karkat tells me his boss is a loud foreigner who constantly brags about gutting purplebloods and is going to teach him to do the same.” He says in formal Trussian.

“I must stay in character and these Canzians love a bombastic foreigner.”

“Do _not_ turn my husband into a ‘persona’, Sergei.” Strider growls, showing his teeth. “And also, _do not_ have sex with Karkat. I put him in this job for safety, not so you could chase after young glute.”

You hold up your hands, innocently. “As usual, the Luscovite rushes to conclusions. I’ve made no sexual advances to Karkat. He is young and needs guidance. His parents must have been inattentive. The wild dogs of Ceaușescu were better to me.”

“They’re young and unskilled. What do you expect?” Dirk shrugs, unconcerned. “You latest civilian persona is the reason why I don’t let you meet Jake.”

“And I say you trust that hairy limey too much.”

He puts down the fork and knife and gives you his infamous glare, “You are _not_ allowed to be jealous. Not after I found you bulge-deep in that purpleblood back in Ruschev.”

“That was my heat cycle!”

“Don’t care. Its ancient history. I’m matespri— _married_ to a wonderful man who isn’t going to sling his thing around like it’s going to fall off of him.”

“What about _quadrants_? Hm?” You playfully reach under the table and just lightly brush against his hips.  

One touch there and he jolts and pulls away from you. His cheeks turn rosy and he looks more annoyed because you remember his weakness, “No, Sergei. I will not pitch you.”

“But I’ve been so bad, Dirk. _So very bad._ ”

“So I’ve heard. Keep your ‘bad’ bulge out of Karkat and I won’t shove a sword up your nook.”

You grin. “What makes you think I won’t _like_ that?”

“I’ll make _sure_ you won’t.” Dirk growls, “I didn’t come here for your teasing. You keep your ear to the ground. I want an update.”

“On what?”

“You _know_ what.”

You sigh and recant the information you’ve learned so far from your employers and friends who lived on the fringes. “The Brotherhood and the UBK are cooling their heels. After the waterfront bomb, the police have cracked down for fear of scaring tourists. Right now, they are stockpiling. UBK is upping their drug production so they can win over the Street Summoners and Hellcats. The Brotherhood is selling more bootlegs to tourists so they trade with the Tex-Mex for better weapons and hook into the Cherub’s vast network and resources.”

Dirk frowns more. “So it is true. The Cherubs have come to New Jack City, but what for?”

“Reestablishing their contacts I would think. The Cherubs are a huge group with minor factions and coordinators. Rumor has it that they have a mole in every gang.” You smirk. “Except _us_ of course. Those Germanium bastards wish they could get in on us.”

“I also overheard Karkat mentioning his boss telling the story of how he killed a highblood and his family for the revenge of imprisoning him.”

You shrug, “He wanted to know my past, so I told him.”

“Yes, you did but you conveniently left out that part that you were _sent_ to Brazilitim and that the man was a wanted criminal from the time of the revolution. And you were supposed to bring him back for questioning.”

You laugh, “The story’s _far_ less captivating if you go by something as minor as _facts_.”

“You just love to paint yourself the hero.”

“Like I need to lie to do _that._ ” You snicker.

Dirk stands, “I should go. Don’t want to drive in the rain for long. In the meantime, try to find out why the Cherubs are in New Jack City and what they want.”

“Its been a decade and still giving orders like you are top dog in the bloc, as always.”

He only has to give you one look to make you shut up. Strider is not a defanged serpent, but an old one that has allowed itself to be brought into a zoo. He watches and waits for the right moment to strike again. You shut your mouth, offer an apologetic look. He’s not one to muse on his past for very long. He leaves the bar, walking out into the pouring rain.

  


End file.
